


Tonsure

by mojo_da_jojo



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Domesticity, F/M, Fluff, let's pretend everything is fine and nothing hurts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-07
Updated: 2017-01-07
Packaged: 2018-09-15 13:16:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9236744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mojo_da_jojo/pseuds/mojo_da_jojo
Summary: The tub isn't unusual, but Solas beinginit is. Even stranger is the -shaving cream?- smeared over his scalp, the mirror in one hand, and the razor in the other.They both freeze as their eyes meet over the ladder's top, as if Solas has been caught in some dastardly act."Er," he says helpfully.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PMLolz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PMLolz/gifts).



> A birthday gift for the lovely Trish, who is the best proofreader and cheerleader a fanfiction author could ask for. [Join Me in Heaven, and Sorrow No More](http://archiveofourown.org/series/600862) would not exist without her. Happy birthday, my dear, and I hope you like it.
> 
> For the purposes of this fic, let's pretend Solas told the Inquisitor everything in Crestwood after removing her vallaslin, and everything is fine, and nothing hurts.

Lavellan wakes to an empty bed.

This isn't an uncommon occurrence, exactly; Solas is an early riser most days, preferring solitude in his morning rituals. She rarely wakes to him leaving her bed, and is soothed gently back to sleep if she does.

It had upset her, the first time it happened, until she realized Solas hadn't left her quarters, just her bed. She's accustomed to it now, though privately she wouldn't mind the quiet pleasure of waking up in her lover's arms.

It's just one of many of Solas' quirks, though, and she does love him, after all.

She stretches sleepily, sheets tangling around her legs. Her hips are pleasantly sore as she rolls out of bed and casts about for last night's discarded nightshirt.

Solas isn't in his customary place in her desk chair, and the book he's been reading is still on her nightstand. There's a stirring of movement somewhere above her head, though, so she clambers up the ladder to the loft, still a little clumsy from sleep.

There's a steaming tub waiting for her, as there usually is in the mornings. She _might_ be a little spoiled, now, having a mage for a lover, though she's sure her chambermaid appreciates the ability to sleep in.

The tub isn't unusual, but Solas being _in_ it is. Even stranger is the - _shaving cream?_ \- smeared over his scalp, the mirror in one hand, and the razor in the other.

They both freeze as their eyes meet over the ladder's top, as if Solas has been caught in some dastardly act.

"Er," he says helpfully.

Lavellan blinks a few times to make sure she's seeing things correctly.

"Er," she stammers. "Good morning?"

"Good morning," he echoes.

"You... shave your head," she says dumbly.

Solas blinks back at her. "Yes?"

The whole scene is so unexpected - Solas' head half-shaved, still slathered in cream, the razor poised in his hand in mid-air, his bare knees poking out of the bathwater - that Lavellan starts giggling madly, and has to haul herself ungracefully over the ladder before she falls off it entirely. When she looks up again Solas has flushed beet red to the tips of his ears, which only makes her giggle harder.

"I'm sorry," she says absurdly, "should I - should I leave you alone?"

"No," Solas says too quickly, and then, as if offended: "Have I missed some sort of joke?"

"You _shave_ your _head_ ," Lavellan repeats, still laughing helplessly.

"That is generally how one maintains a bald head," Solas tells her. "Did you think otherwise?"

Lavellan considers that for a moment. "No," she says, "I don't think I ever really... thought about it? Or maybe you used magic to keep it that way."

"I could," he supposes. "I've always preferred the ritual of doing it myself, though. It's calming, in the mornings."

"Right," Lavellan says. "That's... shockingly normal."

"Apparently," Solas remarks, and turns back to his mirror.

She watches, fascinated, as he resumes shaving. He's methodical, as he is in all things, and the straight razor dances neatly over his skin with the familiarity of long years of practice. "What made you decide to go bald?" she asks after a minute or two.

He doesn't pause in his strokes, though he doesn't answer immediately either. "There were a few reasons," he says eventually, and doesn't elaborate.

"Receding hairline?" Lavellan guesses, smirking.

"No," he says stiffly.

"Grey hair?" she tries again.

"Should I take offense in the fact that you clearly see me as an old man?" Solas quips, but the corner of his mouth is turned up as if he's attempting to cover a smile.

Lavellan rolls her eyes. "Solas, you're literally thousands of years old."

Solas sputters. "That is beside the point," he says.

He still doesn't answer her question until he's flicked the last of the shaving cream off the back of his head. He sets aside mirror and razor and runs his fingers over his scalp almost idly, checking for any stray stubble, and reaches for the nearby pitcher of cold water to rinse. 

"Will you join me?" he asks, hand outstretched, and Lavellan peels off her nightshirt and allows him to help her into the tub.

The water is a hot shock in the cool air of Skyhold's mountains, and her skin pinks in the heat of it. She settles comfortably across from him, knees knocking against his; the tub was not built with two people in mind, but she's very slight next to his broad build. She traces her fingertips over the soft smoothness of his scalp.

"It was an impulse," he admits finally, leaning into her touch. "I woke up in this new, strange world, so unlike my own, with nothing left of the People I had..." 

He trails off. Her hand stills, and she lowers it to cup the side of his face.

"It had been the style of the People to wear our hair long," he says. "Elaborately braided, woven with flowers or gems or feathers. I'd grown proud, and vain, and fancied myself the Dread Wolf my enemies had named me. I'd been braiding my hair with bits of bone, thinking to strike fear into those who saw it."

She tilts her head and studies his face, trying to picture it. For a moment she can't quite see it, but then she remembers his expression as he'd cornered the mages that had killed Wisdom - the cold, unbridled ferocity, the glimpse of something ancient and fearsome behind the steel-grey of his eyes.

She hadn't known yet that he was the Dread Wolf of legend, but she'd felt _something_ , nevertheless.

"When I woke, in this new world," he goes on, "all my vanity felt... childish. Impetuous. I shaved it all in a fit of pique, thinking to leave that man behind."

Lavellan shifts closer, into his lap, and presses her lips to the crown of his head. His arms come up around her, drawing her into him, and for a long time there is no sound but the gentle slosh of the water around them, the quiet gasps and whispers they make into each other's mouths. 

They'll never truly be free from the ghosts of his past, or the burden she carries as Inquisitor. But Solas is with her, still, despite everything, and she'll cherish that for as long as the world lets her.

When the water has cooled past the point of comfort, they finally clamber out, drying each other off with easy familiarity. She steps back into his arms for a moment, pressing her face into his chest. His heart beats sure and steady, and he bends to kiss the top of her head.

"Bald or not, I rather like the man you've become," she says quietly.

She feels rather than sees his smile.

"As do I," he says. "As do I."


End file.
